Abandonment
by Skylarcat
Summary: They never talk about it. There's nothing to say, really. She hates to sleep alone and he likes the way she feels in his arms. It's that simple.


**Title:** Abandonment  
><strong>Author:<strong> Skylarcat  
><strong>Classification:<strong> One shot. Angie Flynn, Oscar Vega.  
><strong>Rating<strong>: PG 13  
><strong>Feedback:<strong> Yes, I would like your thoughts on this.  
><strong>Summary:<strong> They never talk about it. There's nothing to say, really. She hates to sleep alone and he likes the way she feels in his arms. It's that simple.  
><strong>Note:<strong> Flynn and Vega are characters that do not belong to me. Yes, I have used them without permission. However, no copyright infringement is intended. And I will return them intact and a lot more satisfied.

He doesn't know what to say; never being a man of many words. So he says nothing and just stares at her, shoves his hands into his pockets, and stares. He's hoping that his eyes will tell her everything; tell her exactly how he feels.

They have always been similar in that way; adverse to words, to outward displays of emotion, to vulnerability. Sometimes he wishes they would just stop pretending and go ahead and remove their masks, to lay themselves bare to all these false expectations they have created.

But they never do, they just keep pretending, expecting change that never comes. But this time is different, this time she is ditching him. He doesn't understand it, because he would never do that to her, he would never leave her behind. So he needs his eyes to tell her; that it's not okay, that he doesn't want her to leave, that he loves her. He needs her to understand this.

And she's right there, only inches away. Her lips tremble and from where he stands he can see her hands are shaking. He knows she hurting and before this moment he would have known what to say, or he wouldn't have said anything, would have already pulled her into his arms, stroking her hair, offering her comfort, but he's hurting too.

It's the price of dishonesty and betrayal; the cost of not big lies, but instead of small secrets. And her secret about her and Cross did this to them, damaged them beyond repair. That's the thing with betrayal, that once it's inflicted it never goes away, just out of sight, but it's always there; always scratching its way back, always resurfacing, always making it-self known and relived. It's why he can't bring himself to pull her into his arms to comfort her, because it's he that needs to be comforted.

He can't help it. Part of him is angry and bitter, because this is so typical Angie; to run away when things got too close, too real. And he wants to shake her so badly, hold her into place until she opens her eyes and finally sees the truth, but he can't bring himself to move. He's unable to. His feet feel glued into place and his throat is dry, impossibly dry.

And then there is the other part of him; the part that feels completely broken; the part that feels abandoned by her. Here he is ready to fight for them and she's ready to walk away, already having given up. It doesn't feel fair; the irony of everything. He tries to ignore the need that fills him, the desire to have what he can never have, that she will never give him.

He feels like it's the first time that he is really seeing her. In a way, it is, because he barely knows this Angie, this shell that remains of the woman he once knew and loved. Somehow, she is the only thing he can see, the only thing his eyes can focus on. Everything else around them blurs and fades and becomes white noise. The precinct, the desks, the evidence board that stands just behind her; it all disappears. It's just them and she's perfectly clear, sharper even, but at the same time less intense, slightly less vivid.

He sees that her skin is gray and sunken. That's she's there, but not really. She hasn't been for a long time now. For some reason, her hair looks darker. Her eyes are a little duller, less blue and bright. He blames Mark for that; for killing that spark, for extinguishing that fire that once drove her.

In a morbid kind of way, he also blames himself. If he had taken that promotion there would be no Mark Cross. Granted, things would have been different, but Angie would still have been Angie. She wouldn't be broken. There would be no doubts of the importance that she played to his life. But he couldn't go back now and neither could she. They can't change what is already done.

So instead, he just goes ahead and says it. He already knows what her decision is, what she's already decided on doing. "You're leaving." His voice is soft and quiet and cracks just slightly. "Just like that? After everything we have been through."

She sighs, and he can see that her defenses are up and on guard. She lifts her hands, palms forward and flat. He wonders if it's her attempt to keep him at bay or if she just needs to move her hands. "You make it sound as though it's permanent," she says defensively. For a moment, he's tempted to reach out and grab her, but he doesn't.

"It feels that way," he says quietly. "It feels like you're giving up." That much he can see, it's written all over her.

She doesn't say anything, but her shoulders slack and she stares down at his feet, anywhere to avoid eye contact. For some reason, this angers him and he slams his fist down on the desk. She finches, but doesn't lift her eyes to meet his. "You can at least look at me as you tell me goodbye." His voice is calmer than how he actually feels, and he's grateful, because at least he isn't yelling at her.

She lifts her eyes cautiously and finds his in an instant. They're a muted blue; a shade he's not used to seeing, tear-filled and red-rimmed. They flash defiantly. "I'm not going to say goodbye. That's not what this is. I just need some time to clear my head. To think, to figure out where I belong," she explains, but he's not buying it.

Her voice breaks and for a moment, he thinks she might cry. Actually wishes that she would, because at least that meant she still felt something, that she wasn't so far gone that he couldn't reach her. She takes a breath and collects herself and whatever tears he thought were coming are gone now. He knows then that it's over.

It isn't till months later that it begins. After she takes a leave of absence, and after weeks of not speaking to him, the first time surprises him. But in a way, it doesn't. Because he knows her; knows how she hates the dark and how she hates to be alone. In that sense, he's surprised that she didn't come sooner.

"Oscar," she whispers softly, from where she stands in his darkened doorframe. Her voice is small and weak and barely sounds like her.

He blinks several times, his eyes finding the clock that sits on his bedside table. It's almost two in the morning. He rubs the sleep from his eyes and glances in her direction. "Angie, what's wrong?" His voice is groggy, but light, and it's strange to him that he's not more alarmed that she's standing in his bedroom this late in the morning. Somehow, it feels right that she's there.

When she doesn't answer right away, he starts to wonder if he's dreaming. If he's imagining her there, but then he hears her, but barely, because she says it so quietly that he's not sure that he has heard her correctly. "I can't sleep. It's too quiet at my house."

Something about the revelation breaks his heart. Maybe it's the softness of her voice, the way she sounds so sad, or maybe it's the thought of her being alone and sleepless for the last several months, or maybe even the fact that he has missed her so much, that the moment he saw her at his bedroom door is the first time since she left that he actually felt alive. Whatever the reasoning may be, he finds himself pulling back the covers and patting the space beside him. "Come here."

There's a pregnant pause, and for a moment, he thinks it was the wrong thing to say, but then he feels her move near the foot of his mattress, crawling her way up to lay beside him. She lays with her back to him, her legs drawn-up to her chest in a fetal position. She looks so small and scared, and there's too much space that separates them.

He decides to test the waters, partly because he thinks she needs the comfort, and partly because it's been too long since the last time he saw her, that he touched her. When his fingers hesitantly graze over her hips, she doesn't flinch and he takes this as a good sign. Even through the thin fabric of her shirt, he can feel her skin warm and radiate. He maneuvers his hand further down, so it rests against her abdomen. When she doesn't protest or attempt to move away, he positions himself closer, pressing his body against hers. She hums beneath his touch and her body relaxes. They fit together like puzzle pieces, and he can't help, but to bury his face into her hair and to squeeze her closer to him. She draws his hands up and folds them against her chest and he can feel her heart beating. It's racing against his hands. He decides that he doesn't ever want to let her go. That he never wants her to leave the confinements of his arms.

It doesn't take long for her breathing to become even and quiet as she sleeps soundly next to him. He isn't far behind, finding sleep for the first time in months.

In the morning, she is gone.

That night, she comes back, and the night after, and the night after that. It becomes a sort of routine for them.

"Oscar."

"Come here."

It's always the same. Late at night she sneaks into his room, sleeps with her back always to him. He always moves closer, and she always allows him too. And in the morning, she's always gone.

They never talk about it. There's nothing to say, really. She hates to sleep alone and he likes the way she feels in his arms. It's that simple.

That night is different though. It starts off the same.

"Oscar."

"Come here."

He folds his arms around her, but she doesn't keep still. Out of instinct, he tightens his grip around her, afraid that she's climbing back out of bed, that she's leaving him, but she's only adjusting herself, turning around so she can face him.

He stares at her and attempts to take a breath. It comes out shaky, irregular. Everything that he is feeling mixes together, as if trapped in a blender. It all swirls around him like the snow in a snow globe. He's afraid he may crack. That one small sliver and all his contents and guts will come spelling out and then she would know. She would know that he is only a skeleton of a man, that he is nothing without her.

She reaches her hand up and brushes a strand of hair from his forehead. Her fingers are soft against his skin. They caress along his cheek and down to his jaw. There's something about the moment that feels intimate, the way she is touching him, staring at him. That he can't stop himself, he moves forward and kisses her.

Her lips are soft and warm against his. He closes his eyes and kisses her again. The kiss is chaste, no tongues, no open mouths, but it indicates the beginning of something. She seems to know as well. She closes her eyes and rests her head beneath his chin. After that, she always sleeps facing him and he always kisses her goodnight.

For a while nothing changes. That is until she arrives earlier than normal one night. He takes one look at her and can tell that something is different. Her eyes are dilated and dark blue and her skin is flush and pink and before he can question it, she attacks him with a force that he would never expect coming from her. She pushes him back against the mattress and straddles his waist. She presses her palms into his shoulders as she lowers, kissing him all over. She kisses his forehead, the bridge of his nose, along his cheeks, and on his mouth.

There's something desperate in her movements, and though he's hugely turned-on, he can tell something is off. She pulls back, sitting straight on his lap and peels off her shirt in one seamless motion. She discards the garment over her shoulder and turns her attention to unbuttoning his shirt.

He grips her hands, preventing her from unbuttoning further. "Angie…"

His voice is enough to reach her, to snap her back into reality, and she begins to sob. Loud wailing cries escape the back of her throat and she's shaking so badly. He can feel her fingers gripping his shirt so tightly that he expects the fabric to rip. "I thought you loved me. I thought you loved me. I thought you loved me." She repeats it over and over.

When she folds her hands into fists and starts pounding them against his chest, he's quick to sit up and twirl her around, securing her in his arms. "I do love you," he whispers into her hair. "I do love you. I do love you." He repeats it over and over, until he can feel her body begin to relax, her sobbing dying down. "I want you, but not like this. When you're not in a good place. I need to be sure you actually want this, too. That you're not just seeking comfort or trying to use me to fill some empty hole inside of you. But I do love you, Angie."

She's quiet and still in his arms, but he knows that she understands by the way she squeezes his hands and leans closer to him. He continues to hold her, raking his fingers through her hair, and rocking her back and forth. After a while, he realizes that she's fallen asleep, so he crawls in beside her and folds her into his arms.

The next morning, she is gone.

That night she doesn't come over.

When he arrives at work, he's surprised to find her there, sitting at her desk as though she never left. Lucas is beaming and he's not sure what exactly is going on, so he drops his things off at his desk and rolls his chair quickly over to her. "What are you doing here?" His voice is slightly rough and in a higher than normal tone, bordering on excitement. He tries to ignore it, instead focuses on her.

She glances up from her chair, arching an eyebrow in his direction. For a moment, it feels familiar. Like nothing has changed. Her eyes are bright blue and sparkling and her hair is so blonde and shiny, that when she smiles, he forgets to breathe.

"I'm being reinstated," she says, the words slipping from her lips so easily, that it naturally makes sense.

He stares at her, unsure of what to say. Her eyes dart nervously around the bullpen before she scoots her chair closer to him, tilting her chin to his ear. "You said you wanted me. Well, I want you, too, Oscar." She leans back in her chair and folds her hands together. "I think it's time that I start to heal, that I stop thinking that it's weak to ask for help, to stop sabotaging my life. I want to come back." She gestures between them. "To this," she says and smiles before adding, "To you."

He can't help but to return her smile, nodding his head. It's all he can do to stop from kissing her. He knows that she's finally returning to him, that she's finally coming home.

That night, she sleeps in his bed and the night after, and the night after that.

And each morning, she stays.


End file.
